


A Hard Day's Knight  (Or a Day in the Life of Two of Camelot's Finest)

by kattale



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: KMM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattale/pseuds/kattale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two very different knights find common ground, and bridges are built.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hard Day's Knight  (Or a Day in the Life of Two of Camelot's Finest)

**Author's Note:**

> Leon/Gwaine pre-slash (teensy bit of slash in the epilogue)  
> Written for the following KMM prompt:  
> http://kinkme-merlin.livejournal.com/24606.html?thread=24730654#t24730654  
> Which is based on this advert starring Rupert Young:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RlMyM7g5XxQ&feature=youtu.be  
> This is my first KMM fill, my first Merlin story, and the first time I'd written any fiction since I was a child. Very much a novice piece of writing.
> 
> Word Count: 4000ish  
> Warnings: Mild language, rank beginner writer, and not enough porn.  
> 

Dawn

At first cock's crow in the early pre-dawn in the King's City of Camelot, Sir Leon, eldest son of Sir Leodegrance and First Knight of Camelot sat up briskly in his crisp linen sheets and stretched, ready to greet the day.

In the quarters across the castle hall, Sir Gwaine, newly knighted ruffian and secret son of a man of unidentified peerage groaned and rolled over to his belly on his straw mattress, attempting to pull his woolen blanket over his head. The cock crowed again, and he whimpered, curling up into a ball and nursing his pounding head.

*

As the pale rays of the rising sun brushed the shining stone of Camelot's white spires, Leon stretched to his full height, fingers narrowly brushing the ceiling of his small room. He stood in his smallclothes before his glass, carefully dipping his razor into the washbasin and scraping it across the stubble on his neck, patting a cloth over the swath of clean skin beneath his neatly trimmed ruddy beard. He donned a clean tailored shirt and tunic then pulled on a pair of neatly fitted trousers, buttoning the flies with quick efficiency. He warmed a dollop of lanolin between his palms and smoothed it over his long auburn hair, pulling into a soft curl at his nape. He slipped a delicate gold chain over his head, a tiny filigree cross dangling from it – a legacy of his Roman father.

Gwaine burrowed deep in his blankets until a persistent sunbeam pierced through his shutters, urging him reluctantly awake. He swore and rolled off his bed, somehow managing to stagger naked to his feet, thrusting his legs into a loose set of trews and knotting the cord. He shoved a bare foot into a boot, hopping as he tried to toe the mate from under his mattress. He peered blearily with reddened eyes into his piece of polished tin and ran his hand over his scruffy dark beard, deeming it fit (barely) for human presentation. He yanked yesterday's shirt over his head, rolling the sleeves and leaving the collar unlaced. Knotting a thin rope around his waist in lieu of a belt, he gave his bed-flattened chestnut hair a practiced toss, wincing at the stab of pain behind his eyes. He tucked the thong of his pendant into his shirt - the crescent-moon of the old religion, his only memory of his mother. With a sigh, he reached for the door-latch and stepped out into the hallway.

* 

Sir Leon was pulling his door closed behind him, deftly tying the ribbons at his cuff, when the door across from him flew open and closed with a slam. He straightened as one of the Prince's new peasant knights, Gwaine, ducked quickly under his arm and shoved past with a muttered apology, probably in a race to reach muster before Leon's first inspection. Leon rolled his eyes - cutting it a bit close, wasn't he? The Knight-Captain continued his measured pace, but to allow the fellow a break he detoured to the sideboard in the great hall for a slab of roast mutton on soft bread.

Gwaine hurtled through the kitchens, charming cheese from the dairy maids and wheedling a pear from the undercook's stores. He bit into it saucily as he winked at her and dodged the apron she snapped at him, darting back through the door to the sounds of her scolding and laughter.

Morning

The sun was peeking above the rooftops of Camelot's lower town, as Sir Leon crossed the courtyard to the armory. The townsfolk were stirring in the streets, setting out wares and penning up livestock for market. Ducking through the door into the armory's shadowed gloom, Leon paused to adjust his eyes. Standing next to his armour stand, he slipped with practiced ease into his quilted gambeson and mail, tabard and belt. His shoulder guard, breastplate and gorget clicked neatly into place and he snugged the ties to his bracers with his teeth, waving off a hovering squire. He lifted his sword from its rack, checking the gleaming edge before sliding it into his scabbard with a snick. He was armed and waiting when Prince Arthur strode into the barracks, followed closely on his heels by his ever-present servant, Merlin. Sir Leon tucked his helm under his arm and straightened his shoulders as Arthur gave him a cursory inspection, passing him with a quick slap to the knight's shoulder. He lifted his chin proudly under his Prince's approval. 

As he joined Arthur's side to inspect the men, Leon glanced to the corner where Sir Gwaine was wrestling his head through the neck-hole of his mail. Merlin was tugging on the sleeve of his gambeson where it had folded and bunched up under the chain. Leon pretended not to hear the whispered cursing when Merlin disentangled a hank of Gwaine's hair from the clasp of his gorget. As buckles were tightened in hurried frenzy, Leon caught the look of fond exasperation and sheepish laughter that passed between Merlin and Gwaine. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

* 

Out on the practice field under a blazing blue sky, Leon gazed proudly at the straight lines of his men. Arthur was calling drills to them, while Leon strode through the ranks, correcting stance and position where necessary. The men were shaping up well, responding to Arthur's commands with tight precision. This soon out of wartime the ranks were green, swelling with new recruits. The endless repetition of Arthur's training was having good effect and Leon could see the potential in these men – younger sons of the peerage interspersed with promising fighters of the lower classes. It wasn't an easy blending. Two classes of people, two groups reaching to each other across a cultural divide. Too many differences, one might think – yet Arthur had faith that under his leadership these men would form the defensive core of Camelot, and Leon had faith that Arthur might just be right.

A laughing shout from the next list broke through Sir Leon's musings. He saw that Sir Gwaine had enticed a group of the rougher men into a series of sparring bouts. Catcalls and jeering, shoving and good-natured taunting accompanied the clash of weapons and grunts of pain as fists and weapons connected in a haphazard brawl. Gwaine was swinging his sword with casual arrogance, making kissing noises at his towering opponent, Sir Percival. There were no holds barred in Gwaine's sparring – Gwaine lashed out with a boot at Percival's knee, but the knight dodged the blow and roared forward, taking Sir Gwaine in the gut with a lowered shoulder, barrelling him over to the ground. The bout degenerated into a grappling mess - elbows smashing and heads slamming, Gwaine trying valiantly to use his agility against Percival's raw strength to pin the giant in a wrestling hold. They rolled across the lists, gathering mud and hay in the links of their armour and tabards as they struggled. Leon shook his head in despair. It was effective fighting, he'd give it that, but no fit behaviour for a knight of Camelot. 

With jaw clenched, Sir Leon returned his attention to his ranks, pairing up the men to run them through the basic sword forms. Perhaps the cultural divide was too vast to ever be bridged. 

Sun-High

As the sun arched up to its zenith in the summer's sky, the trainees mounted up to relieve the morning guard for afternoon patrols. This was Leon's favourite part of the day. He needed to be active, needed to feel that he was earning his keep, a productive knight of the realm. Camelot was never really at peace, and under Uther's rule, never would be. Leon and Arthur headed the patrol, ears sharp and eyes peeled, at the ready for any threat that challenged them.

At the back of the patrol, Sir Gwaine had pulled his mount alongside Merlin's. Leon suppressed his disapproval at the Prince's insistence that his manservant accompany him on every patrol. He'd given up trying to convince Arthur that Merlin wasn't safe, that he didn't take the patrols seriously. Leon pressed his lips together as the sound of laughter rose over the trees. The knight had pulled his helmet free and had it balanced on the pommel of his saddle, between his knees. Merlin was chattering animatedly beside him, his eyes shining and his hands dancing as he gestured the punchline of his story. Gwaine was preening at the attention, running a hand through his hair and lifting his eyebrows in what was clearly flirting.

Leon glanced at his prince, and saw that Arthur was not suppressing his own disapproval in any way. He was, in fact, scowling openly back at the pair.and called out to reprimand his servant sharply. “MERlin,” he scolded, “If we are to find any sign at all of the outlaws, we will hardly be successful if we broadcast our approach.”

Merlin bit his lip sheepishly and rolling his eyes at Gwaine, who laughed quietly. Then he shrugged his shoulders in regret as Merlin kicked his horse forward to trail at Arthur's heel. Leon glanced back once more and caught a look in Gwaine's eye, one of sad defeat. Gwaine looked up, caught Leon's appraising glance, and shot him a half-smile and a shrug. He wouldn't cause trouble between Merlin and Arthur – Leon felt sure Gwaine knew the situation there. He gave the man a nod of understanding.

*

When the arrows rained down on them from the trees, it was hardly unexpected. What was not expected, perhaps, was the number of swordsmen who rushed from the underbrush, dozens upon dozens swarming the knights and trying to pull them from their horses. Leon shouted directions and the knights responded, those unhorsed grouping into small clusters back-to-back, raising their shields thrusting with swords and pikes from the safe protection of the shield-wall, while the mounted men circled them, taking the bandits from behind.

Dispatching an opponent, Leon surveyed the melee and realized with a start that Arthur had broken free and was working his way across the clearing, fighting like a mad thing against no less than a half-dozen attackers. Pulling the knight next to him over to close the circle, he broke ranks and hurtled towards his prince. His timing was impeccable, thank the gods, and he raised his shield to fend off a directed hail of arrows, at the same time engaging the sword that was slicing towards Arthur's unprotected side. Arthur shot him a grateful look, then determinedly pressed a few more feet towards the trees. Leon could see now that Merlin's horse had bolted at the first sign of attack, unseating him into the underbrush. The servant had pulled himself to his feet and somehow managed to draw his sword and fend off several of the bandits who now lay unconscious at his feet. Leon raised his brows in surprise – perhaps Arthur's ridiculous attempts to train the man were finally sinking in. He nodded to Arthur, and shoulder to shoulder, shields raised, the two men fought their way across the clearing. 

* 

The instant the bandits first swarmed the horses, Sir Gwaine had voluntarily leapt free of his mount to give himself space to swing his sword freely. He lobbed his helm at an approaching fighter, and slammed his shield into another, losing it moments later to a well-aimed blow to his elbow. He spun in place, his sword clearing a swath through the bandits. They circled him warily, looking for an opening.

A harsh cry from the trees behind him made him spin around. Merlin stood backed against a stand of birches, an unconscious bandit at his feet while several more spread out cautiously to corner him. One clumsy attacker somehow tripped on a fallen branch - or on his own feet - and stumbled against another, while Merlin's sword darted out and took a fourth across the throat. Gwaine beamed in pride, then backhanded his closest opponent with the pommel of his sword and launched himself back towards the standoff, fists and boots flying. He threw himself in front of Merlin, scooping up the fallen branch and grinning merrily at the remaining attackers. He hefted the branch in his hand, giving it a spin. “Care to dance, gentlemen?” he laughed. 

Afternoon

When all was done, a good 30 or more of the outlaws lay on the ground, few of them still moving. The others had fled, but a messenger had been dispatched to the castle, and a regiment of the guards would soon return to deal with the bodies and escapees. Sir Leon hovered at Arthur's side, his heart still pounding from adrenalin no doubt caused by the insane risk his prince had taken. “This was too organized to be a random attack,” Arthur mused. 

Leon nodded. “They're too well-armed, sire, and their numbers would indicate a heavy recruitment drive in the area. I'll send men out to question those in the nearby villagers.”

Arthur nodded, and returned his attention to his hapless servant. “And you! Merlin, you IDIOT!!!” He smacked Merlin on the side of the head. “Why didn't you ride away from the fight? I can't trust you for a second, you don't have the brains your mother gave you!” The prince's hands ruffled over Merlin's shoulders, surreptitiously checking him for wounds.

Merlin huffed indignantly. “Well if you hadn't led us straight into an ambush, you daft arse, we'd be well quit of the forest, back having our suppers. Are you blind as well as deaf?” Merlin adjusted Arthur's gorget, his hands patting anxiously over Arthur's chain, checking for breaks in the links.

“You'll stay where I put you, and keep yourself out of trouble!” Arthur's hand came up to pinch Merlin by the neck, forcing him back to where the remaining horses had been herded up by the uninjured patrol.

* 

Gwaine sighed and shifted at Leon's side. “Hey,” he said. “Thanks for crashing the party, yeah? Always room for a few more players. Not that we needed you – we were on a winning streak for sure.” He gazed after Merlin who was attempting to wrestle Arthur into a headlock.

Leon shot him a half-smile of exasperation tinged with pity. “All part of the job.” Leon chewed on his lip as he watched the prince manhandle Merlin up on the saddle in front of him. “Tavern later? I'll spot the first round.”

Gwaine shot his captain a far-too-perceptive look. “Can't say no to that, mate.”

Sunset

The sun hung low in the sky as the patrol straggled through the castle gates. In the barracks, Leon beckoned a squire to assist as he carefully removed his helmet and gorget, handing each piece of armor to the boy and supervising its placement on the armor stand. When he was down to his gambeson, he examined the armor in minute detail, noting in surprise more than one crushed or broken link in his mail. He'd taken more hits than he realized. He shrugged off the pain - he'd check for bruises later. He gave the boy careful instructions for cleaning and repairs. He cleaned his own sword there and then, wiping the drying blood away with a soft cloth, scouring away the dried flecks and honing it to a burnished shine. 

Back in his quarters, Leon lifted the ewer and poured steaming water into the basin. He shrugged out of his gambeson, handing it to a passing servant for laundering, then slowly removed his sweat-soaked clothing and folded each piece over a chair-back. He stripped off his smalls and wet a linen in the washbasin, drawing it across a hard bar of lavender soap. He ran the cloth over his body, rinsing away the sweat and grime. He dipped and rinsed the cloth frequently, savouring the heat as he ran the cloth across his chest, over his shoulders and back, between his legs. He let the heat soothe his aches and bruises. When the water was yellow with sweat, he poured it into his chamber pot and re-filled the washbasin, wetting and soaping his hair and rinsing it clean. He toweled himself off, pulling clean clothes out of his chest and squeezing the dampness from his hair.

*

Gwaine stumbled into the armory, groaning and swearing and shedding pieces of armor and weapons every-which-way. “Gods, I hurt,” he confided in the squire, who didn't seem to know if he should laugh or cower. “Here, help me with this fucking thing? Every inch of me aches.” He waggled his eyebrows at the squire, who choked out a laugh and hauled him out of his hauberk and chainmail shirt. Gwaine dropped the mail and gambeson where he stood, followed by his filthy shirt, leaving them for the squire. Lifting one arm, he turned his nose and gave it a sniff underneath, pulling a horrible face at the squire. He hugged his bare chest as he left the barracks, grumbling about his hurts under his breath.

Oblivious to his indecent state, the knight wandered into the courtyard, arms flexing as he worked the pump before thrusting his head and shoulders under the flow. “FUCK!” he gasped, “That's bloody cold!” He gave himself a good drenching, stopping only when he was soaked and shivering, shaking his head like a dog to clear wet hair from his eyes. He retrieved his sword from where he'd cast it onto the cobblestones and headed back to his chambers. He scowled at the mess on his sword, scrubbed the stains on it with a scrap of rag. When it met with his satisfaction, he tossed it into a corner, grabbed a shirt, and headed for the pub.

Evening

There was something about risk to life and limb, Leon thought, that brought men, like a magnet, to the pub. In the chill of the evening, most of the afternoon patrol had gathered that night at the Rising Sun, claiming the sought-after tables nearest the great fireplace. Perhaps they had the prince to thank for that, who had graced them in one of the rare times he allowed himself to relax with his men.

The prince lounged by the hearth, legs stretched out, nursing a goblet of mead. Merlin sat near him, their heads bent together as they talked, the dim light from the flames glinting on their hair, golden and midnight in turn. Leon turned his attention to his meal, cutting a neat piece of beef from his platter with his eating knife and lifting it to his lips. He chewed thoughtfully, following the bite with a sip of good wine from the chalice at his elbow, courtesy of the good prince who'd sprung for the first two rounds.

Leon sighed. Really, he couldn't complain. Life was good. He had a warm chamber, a full belly, a place of honour and respect in the peerage, he had value and skill to lend in aid of his Kingdom. He had a sword in his scabbard and horse in the stables, good comrades at his elbow, and an evening to lay back and appreciate it all. A good life, he reminded himself. He lifted his eyes back to his prince, and sighed again.

* 

Gwaine tipped his head back and drained his ale, motioning to Mary to refill his tankard. After another long pull, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and picked up his bread to mop up another bite of lamb stew. From the hearth he caught a flash as Prince Arthur tipped back his head to laugh heartily at some quip Merlin had shared with him. Merlin's eyes never left the prince's face. Arthur shoved him with his shoulder and Merlin smirked innocently, wickedness playing under his dark lashes.

They were beautiful together. Really. Couldn't ask for a better matched pair, the royal prince and his loyal servant. Gwaine snorted into his beer and listened with half an ear to their relentless squabbling as Arthur challenged some detail of Merlin's story, and Merlin suggested the prince's faculties perhaps might be in doubt. As the prince indulged his servant with a softly fond look, Gwaine raised his tankard and called for another round.

*

“It's not like I'm invisible or anything,” Gwaine was confiding into his ale. “I'm bloody gorgeous. I have great hair. Ask the kitchen maids!”

“Gorgeous hair,” Leon agreed. “All soft and shiny and golden...” He peered forlornly into the bottom of his cup, turning it upside down to see if he could catch a drop. Nothing.

They were the last patrons remaining in the pub, and Leon eyed Mary speculatively, wondering if she could be cajoled into allowing them one last round. She glared back at him from where she was wiping the tables, and he found himself too much a coward to ask. 

“I mean, I save his bloody arse,”

“Again!” Leon pointed out.

“Again,” Gwain nodded, “And he can't even be bothered to stick around for pint.”

Leon nodded. “Exactly. You'd think you'd get a 'Thank you, Leon,' or a 'Good job, Leon', but nooo.” He reached over and grabbed a swig from Gwaine's mug, neatly intercepting his reaching hand. “You get nothing, not a drop of respect.”

Gwaine reclaimed his tankard with a surprising deftness, given how many times he'd seen the bottom of it that night. He shook his head. “Not a thought, not a glance to spare for an old friend,” 

“Who's been at his side for years,” Leon added,

“Loyal to the end,” Gwain shook his head sadly. “Loyal even despite his stupid prickly independence.”

“And despite his stupid arrogant sense of pride,”

“And his stupid giant ears,”

“And his stupid crooked teeth,”

“And his ridiculous cheeks,”

“And his soft golden hair,”

“And those thick dark lashes,”

“And those blue eyes,” they chorused, in maudlin unison.

They lapsed into a morose silence until Leon nudged Gwaine with his elbow. “Drink up, man. That bar-maid is giving us the evil eye.” Gwaine raised his cup to a stern glance from Mary, and drained it in one go. He threw a companionable arm about Leon's shoulders as they staggered together out the door.

 

Night

Sir Leon stepped into his quarters and shut the door quietly behind him. A servant had laid a fire in his grate and it was burning merrily. He held a taper to the flames and lit a pale wax candle, carrying it to the side of his bed. His linens had been turned down, and he rummaged in his chest for a folded bed-shirt. He sat on his chair to remove his boots, but got stalled after that, staring thoughtfully into the flames.

* 

Gwaine stumbled into his chamber, cursing as he tripped over a boot in the dark, and fumbling his way to his table to light the smokey oil lamp. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it to the floor, throwing himself back onto his bed to lie atop the blankets, staring moodily at the patterns that the single flame made on the boards of his ceiling. In the coolness of his room, he shivered.

 

Just... a thought. 

Sir Leon padded softly to his door, resting his hand for a moment on the smooth oak panel while a confusing array of bad ideas turned themselves over in his mind. Finally, he reached for the latch-string and pulled the heavy door open just enough to lean his head out and peer warily into the corridor.

Across the hall, the door opposite swung open, and Sir Gwaine casually leaned up against the door-frame, arms folded across his chest. He eyed Sir Leon curiously.

Before he could regret the choice, Leon jerked his head towards his room, stepping back and opening his door in invitation. Gwaine lifted his eyebrows and studied him shrewdly. Then he pushed himself off the door-frame, saying mildly, “Yeah, alright.”

Sir Leon's door swung shut behind them with a thud, and the latch fell, leaving an empty hallway in its wake.

Time to bridge that cultural gap.

 

Epilogue

Before the flame had burned a candle-mark, Sir Leon flung his head back against the pillow, arching and writhing under Gwaine's attentions. When his vision finally cleared, he allowed that he might, in time, learn to appreciate the... _less restrained_ attitude of his comrade-in-arms. There was perhaps a case to be made, he thought, under certain circumstances, for indulging one's wilder side. 

The cock was crowing the approaching dawn when Sir Gwaine attempted to stave off his fourth orgasm under the steady and even thrusts of his unflagging First Knight. He was coming to understand the value of the relentless determination and regulated attention to detail that a Camelot Knight's training provided. If this was where his new status brought him, he thought with a grin, bring on the drills.

*

The sun was well over the battlements when Sir Leon finally slouched his way into Council the next day. Arthur shot a look at the hourglass and cocked an eyebrow at his Knight-Captain. Sir Leon appeared much the worse for wear – his eyes red and swollen, his beard scruffy and unshaven, his hair in disarray. The hem of his shirt-tail trailed down to one knee and his tunic appeared to be thrown on hastily and tied with – a rope? 

“Sir Leon.” Arthur acknowledged as Leon took his place at the Prince's left. “So nice of you to join us.” Arthur glanced back over his shoulder, flashing Merlin a knowing smirk. Leaning his head towards the haggard knight, he schooled his expression to seriousness and murmured something about “shaping up” and “setting a good example,” and “really gone downhill recently.” Merlin's laughter spilled over the room as Leon's cheeks flushed pink. 

 

End


End file.
